Clipped feathers
by Trailblazer117
Summary: An American street fighter finds himself serving a short sentence in prison, a time dragged out by daily beatings. The prevalence of corruption is draining but the friendships formed may allow him to cope. However, there is no escaping your past. Officer Kirkland better hurry back to the prison and restore order before Gilbert and many others fall victim to the Braginsky's.


Attempting to swallow, prisoner 1650 almost choked on the dryness of his throat. His parched palate became impossibly dry with each inhalation, and yet, he would not stoop so low as to drink from the soaked floors of the prison. A prison? Definitely closer to a dungeon. Brushing his warm, sweaty fringe from his withdrawn eyes he could peer through the rusted bars of his cell to see a prisoner, in the cell beside his, slurp from the ground. _How could they drink this shit, literal shit?_ he wondered, gazing at the yellowed grimy substance flowing across the old stained concrete. _It's dawn, I'm sure of it._ The lack of windows or natural light within sight of the male made deciphering the current time impossible. _Only twenty five days left, come on Alfred you can make it._

Alfred Jones was known throughout the City of Liverpool for being a rowdy, American, Boston born man. Only 21 and able to boast a larger amount of fist fights than ten men thrice his age, he was a menace by any circumstances. Certainly, any woman, single or married fell at his feet. Indeed a handsome young man with a clean shaven face, wheat coloured, slicked across hair. His eyes were the brightest blue in the city and could be used to hypnotise both men and woman. Despite this fact, he was alone. A crooked grin appeared upon his shadowed face. He thought it was quite funny that people can adore you, and yet here he remains, in prison all alone. _No! I am not alone!_ He stressed to himself. Cerulean eyes bulged and his fists tightened. The blood covering his hands, from yesterdays beating, begin to crack with the tightening of the fist's skin and revealed the tan beneath. For Gods sake calm down he soothed himself. He couldn't keep letting his rage control him. _Just twenty five days._

His concentrated attempt to calm himself was shattered with 3 officers forcing themselves into his cell at an incredible speed. No policeman would risk getting pummelled by the prisoner and each day they would overwhelm him with the more beefy guards pouncing upon the American to restrain him. Within a week, he realised that he did not have a chance against their bats. Still they never grew tired of beating him into submission. Dominance and control was a necessity to Alfred and so, in return, he would annoy the guards to no end. The beatings were easy to take as long as he didn't break, of course they hurt but he would never break.

 **Crunch**! _Well fuck me._ Colliding with a lower rib, that boot had most certainly broken his rib. "Had enough yet ye fucking bastard!" _Bellamy, that damn fucker._ If there was one officer he couldn't stand, that was assistant chief constable Bellamy. Him along with Thompson and Gardener were three cruellest in the Thresmond Prison. _How on earth did he become one of the second highest rank here?_ Left to supervise prisoners and currently being the highest rank in the prison, with higher ups absent, Bellamy called the shots. Thinking back on it, it wasn't the best thing to almost break the prick's face with a cruel right hook upon his arrival but eh, you can take the boy out of Boston but not the reverse.

A week of just starving Alfred must have made the guards bored. Alfred, far too tired to fight back had grown considerably weaker. _The bastards probably want me to recover my health just to enjoy beating it back out of me. I'll deny them the pleasure of being beaten half to death, such an ordeal can wait till I'm out of here._ With his hands chained in front of him, Alfred jogged to keep up with the last prisoners trickling into the cafeteria. _Finally._

Upon entering the enormous hall, the thin, frozen air instantly cooled the sweat upon Alfred's toned arms. His tank top and striped black-white sweatpants still stuck close to his wet skin and he uncomfortably shuffled towards one of the back benches. No one would dare challenge the American, or befriend him it seemed. He sighed, "Perhaps that isn't a bad thing." he whispered.

"So you're already going crazy talking to yourself? I didn't think that you would crack so early." Deep blue eyes shot up and met a pair of crimson ones looking extremely amused.

Narrowing his own, the American spat " Who the **fuck** are you talking to?" He hoped this would scare the creep off but the strangers smirk grew in size. "If you don't stop smiling, I'm gonna smack that smirk off ya face!" By now, Alfred was ready to extend his prison sentence. "Sorry, Gilbert Beilschmidt at your service." He bowed his head quickly, adding a mock salute for good measure. Alfred noticed the peculiar last name, certainly German. Sensing the familiarity, he asked; "You don't, by any chance, have a brother do you…Ludwig Beilschmidt?" Colour drained from the pale German's face, it almost looked as white as the mans hair Alfred noticed. This man, Gilbert, looked in his mid twenties and had pristine white hair, how peculiar he thought.

"You know mein bruder? Mein Gott im Himmel, scheisse!" Alfred was now considerably calmer knowing that this man was no threat. Ludwig Beilschmidt was a good, quiet man who ran the local pub; 'The Black Eagle.' The younger brother of Gilbert, but certainly more mature by the looks of things, he had always treated Alfred well and occasionally gave him a drink on the house after a long day at work. The German was taller and more built than Alfred but there was no need for him to worry, he was a decent man with a kind heart. Snapping out of it, the American became aware of Gilbert once more. "I am not a begging man, but I ask that you don't tell my brother of me being here, please." His tone now serious. "Okay, whatever dude." He had no intention of telling Ludwig anyways,. However, he was curious about Gilbert's story and queried; "Though, why are you here?" The white haired man returned his mischievous smirk.

"Us Germans have a special thing for alcohol. However, it seems even I have my limits, hard to believe, I know. Swearing at police officers wasn't within my power in a drunken state. Especially with my two best friends Francis and Antonio encouraging me. Them idiots are also in here after that incident." A genuine smile showed up part of his face mouth and the German would swear the the corner of the others lips definitely lifted. _This American guy doesn't seem so bad after all._

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Before long both men had caught up on each others lives. Alfred had learned a lot about both of the brothers. They originated from Gelsenkirchen, Germany and moved with their father when Ludwig was 11 and Gilbert 14. Ten years on with their father now dead, the brothers looked after one another. Gilbert worked across the west with shipbuilding, returning to Liverpool every few months to visit Ludwig, who was till unaware of his current whereabouts. The younger would surely have a heart attack over any suggestion that Gilbert was not currently in Belfast.

Although Alfred tried to stay off the subject, his family was brought up. Reluctantly, he revealed that all but his half brother (currently residing in Canada) were gone. Both sympathised with each others loneliness and Alfred knew this was why the Gilbert tried to befriend him. However, he had a reputation to uphold, a strong man who is loved by others, not a lover himself. _I suppose Gilbert is a strong and tall man. J_ ust as tall as Alfred _. We could certainly look out for each other, just for now._

"So, is there anyone to look out for here…the prisoners I mean?" Curiosity filled the blue eyed inmate. Scanning the room, none of the prisoners looked too threatening. "Ivan, Ivan Braginsky." Gilbert deadpanned. Expecting Gilbert to continue, Alfred stared at Gilbert's face, which now looked drained of all life. Night had fallen and prisoners began to filter out of the room to avoid getting forced into cells.

"The Braginsky's are a prominent Russian family involved in gangs, it's unknown why the prison hadn't recognised his crimes when they brought him in, but I reckon that idiot Bellamy is working with him. That Russian is fifteen benches back, I can feel him watching us. Look for a silver haired, tall, late twenty year old." Unfortunately, Alfred met eyes with the man almost instantly. An intimidating aura surrounded his form and his violet sunken eyes stood out against his shadowed face. _Dear God help me._ Gilbert caught his attention once more and continued. "This prison has become disgustingly corrupted under Bellamy. Thank god Arthur is getting here tonight." Looking noticeably confused, Alfred was informed by Gilbert. "The deputy Chief constable Arthur Kirkland arrives tonight. A strict, sometimes bitter kid with a good heart. He is detested and loved by many here, guards and prisoners, but only because he is willing to uphold the law.

You can talk to mein freund Francis. I'm positive that he cell is close to yours, corridor B right?" Alfred nodded but made himself look noticeably confused to gain more information about this 'Francis.' "Well there are only six cells on your corridor, look around there. He's a blonde guy with a French accent, listen out for it because that'll him, now, I must get going." Gilbert stood and shook hands with Alfred before departing.

Both escaped the cafeteria before the guards came in to beat those unwilling to leave. The German shivered, overly aware of those violet eyes still watching him, he slightly quickened his pace, just slightly.

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By the time he had arrived at his cell, the American was shattered and too hungry to even think. Bearing a striking resemblance to vomit, the food here could not be downed by Alfred and so he generously donated most of it to a more than willing Gilbert. Before realising it, he stood before his destroyer, an empty cell. In a lethargic manner he dragged his aching legs, worn down by his large leather boots, over the threshold of his cell. The familiar clunking and groaning of the iron gate, grinding closed behind him, sounded as Alfred remained standing, staring into thin air.

 _Where on earth am I, where is everyone else?_ All too tragic memories reentered his head. God he hated night, his thoughts were plagued by the past. _Shut up you damn sap, why are you thinking about that! SHUT THE HELL UP!_ Unfortunately, Alfred was his own worst enemy.

A mere rag upon a steel frame was all to accompany him throughout the night. Settling on the rough and matted material of his bed, the boy shifted his muscles and turned towards the concrete wall beside him. Silently thanking God that the room was dark and his own ability to remain quiet, Alfred allowed an endless stream of tears roll over his flushed cheeks. _You're acting like a damn bitch!_ The blonde lay, silently scolding his own weaknesses.

Officially drained both emotionally and physically, the salty flow eventually let up, leaving only sore eyes and cheeks raw with irritated water marks. Smooth eyelids gently began to lower and slide over his reddened eyes, massaging, caressing them. On the edge of sleep, a beautiful sound entered his head. _A French lullaby. "_ Le pont de Londres est casse. Est casse, est casse. Le pont de Londres est casse. Ma belle dame."

It now felt like weights had been attached to his eyelashes and the song lay him down into the depths of sleep.

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Creaking quietly, the large iron slowly swung open. Arthur stepped into the short corridor lined by six cells. The darkness was obstructing all sight and so Arthur fetched a small, bright blue flashlight from his pocket. Shining it onto the floor, not wake the other sleeping prisoners. Only five steps into the room, the deputy chief constable was disgusted to find his boot in some prisoners faeces. "For fucks sake! What is this shit." he furiously whispered, only to unexpectedly receive an answer. "Literally shit hon hon, Arthur mon amie, how comical." The Brit quickly replied with a "Shut your trap frog, before I wipe it off my boot and onto your damn hair."

Quick notes-

Alfred - American - 21 (A rowdy American living in Liverpool and involved in shady money making. Good looking, young and secretly troubled.)

Gilbert - German - 24 (Inmate who has befriended Alfred and Arthur. Serving a short sentence with his best friends, Antonio and Francis for his drunken behaviour. Greatly fears Ivan Braginsky for unknown reasons, thus far.)

Ludwig - German - 21 (Younger brother of Gilbert. Runs a pub named The Black Eagle, frequently serves Alfred drinks and doesn't know of his brothers imprisonment.)

Arthur - English - 22 (A high ranking policeman who has just returned to the corrupted prison. Enemy of Bellamy and Ivan but friend of Antonio, Gilbert, Francis and non corrupted prisoners/ guards.)

Antonio - Spanish - 23 (The Spanish best friend of Gilbert and Francis. A cheerful man who's not coping in prison.)

Francis - French - 25 (A Toulouse-born Frenchman who is Antonio and Gilbert's best friends, also 'friends' with Arthur.)

Ivan Braginsky - Russian - (A member of a prominent Russian gang, involved in very illegal ways of making money. Has corrupted guards and the prison system for his own benefit.)

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Thank you so much for reading, I hope that you have enjoyed this piece and will follow me with the story. Sorry for the use of so much profanity aswell, oops. Lastly, ny feedback at all would be awesome too! Thanks again xxxx


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